Return of the Word Count
Although this one still lacks a cute name like Jam Jar.
Word Count:
3824
I'm at a point where I'm not really hooked into the story yet, so it's going sooo slow. Plus, like many others, I'm at a bit of a lower point, creatively speaking. But I'm trying to soldier on and do it bit by bit until I'm dying to write it.
Also, yes, fandom is in a lull, and yes, I am somehow still behind on reading. Yes, I suck. But! No midterms next week. So yay reading and writing! So, if you want to punch me in the face for not reading your story, don't do it yet! I have a To Answer/Comment On folder! Which I will look at soon! I promise!
In other news, the following is rated R for Ridiculous. I blame amberlynne. Let's never speak of it again. I have a reputation to uphold.
There is a soggy kitten huddling next to the front tire on his bike. Brad thought it was a rat at first, but it didn’t run when he moved and it mewls when he picks it up.
Correction: it’s not soggy, it’s waterlogged.
“Jesus,” Brad tells it. “Aren’t you fucking sad? Like Ray after every single shower his mother’s ever forced him to take.”
The kitten shivers in response. It’s young, right at that stage where its head is big enough to damn near topple it over, and most of the head is consumed by dark eyes. It fits right in the palm of his hand, a perfect little orange and white pathetic wet thing.
Brad looks around for the little girl who’s undoubtedly lost this thing, but it’s raining sheets, impossible to see anything more than ten feet away.
Another little shiver and Brad says, “Goddammit,” unzipping his slicker one-handed. He jerks down the zipper on the sweater he’s wearing underneath and tucks the kitten in and zips it in. He has to cradle the bundle of it against his stomach until he’s on the bike, kicking off, thinking about Nate laughing at him.
Nate does laugh at him, once he finds out.
But when Brad gets in the front door Nate’s not there, but all the lights are on and something’s cooking.
“Nate,” Brad yells, back to cradling the kitten.
“What,” Nate yells back from upstairs.
“Can you get me a towel?”
“Just a sec.”
Brad manages to scrape off his boots while he waits and drips. There’s some silence from upstairs, and then the sound of Nate emerging from his office and going through the hall closet for a towel.
“Are you alright?” Nate asks when he hits the bottom of the stairs, green-striped towel draped over his hands.
“I’m fine,” Brad says.
“You’re squirming. If this is going to be like Alien then I am going back the fuck upstairs. No way am I cleaning up your entrails.”
“Don’t be such a bitch. I know you’re curious.”
Nate shrugs, slinging the towel over his shoulder. He unzips Brad’s soaked jacket down to where Brad’s holding the kitten and then goes for the sweater underneath. When he gets that down to Brad’s hand there’s a flurry of squirming and then the kitten pops its little bedraggled face out, blinking at Nate.
“Well,” Nate says, blinking back down at it, “it’s not an alien, but it kind of looks like a goblin.” Still, he gets the towel and holds it out while Brad transfers his charge into it, and then he folds the kitten up until just its head it sticking out of the mound of towel.
“Go get changed,” he says. “I’ll see if we have anything that passes as cat food.”
Brad puts on fresh jeans and a dry t-shirt before heading back downstairs. Nate’s stirring his pot of curry, cat and towel in the crook of one arm.
“Anything?” Brad asks, levering the bundle out of Nate’s arm and into his own. He picks up a corner of the towel and rubs it over the top of the kitten’s ridiculously huge head. It blinks up at Brad again. It does kind of look like a goblin. Or an old man stuck in a kitten’s body.
“No,” Nate replies, putting the lid back on the pot. “I’ll have to go buy something.” He sticks a fingertip under the kitten’s chin and rubs it back and forth and the kitten closes its eyes.
They relocate to the living room and Brad starts rubbing down the kitten and Nate turns on the news. They watch in silence that’s punctuated by kitten-squeaks and Brad murmuring, stay fucking still and no claws.
By the first commercial their little friend is approaching dry, but still ridiculous looking. It’s also a boy, and he’s noisy.
“Mew mew mew, I know,” Brad says, flipping the towel to the dry side, making a volcano-shaped nest to plunk the kitten down in. “Stay.”
That works for about five seconds, and then the stupid little goblin face pokes out, going, mew mew mew.
“I regret recognizing you as something other than a rat,” Brad says, and Nate laughs.
“I’ll go get some stuff,” Nate says. “Don’t stick him on the porch.”
Brad covers the hole in the towel with his palm, kitten ears brushing his fingers. “I make no promises.”
“Whatever,” Nate scoffs, pulling on his sweater. “Like you have the ability to leave a baby anything out in the cold.”
Goblinface starts licking Brad’s hand earnestly, but Brad’s face is solid. “I can’t help but noticing you’re not a baby anything though, so I hope you’ll enjoy your night spent on the porch.”
Nate pulls an exaggerated pouting face. “Too bad,” he says, “after I picked out a dildo for tonight and everything. Guess you’re on your own.” He digs his car keys out of the basket on the table. “And I know how bad you are at using them on yourself, so enjoy your sexual frustration, Colbert. I’ll be in the car.”
Brad rolls his eyes and ignores the very strong impulse to go check the bedroom. Instead he waits until Nate’s gone before lifting Goblinface out and plopping him down on his thigh. There’s more mewing, but it stops when Brad strokes his fingers down the kitten’s back, all the way to his scrawny tail. A rusty, stuttering little purr kicks up under his fingers, and Brad turns the news down to listen to it.
Word Count:
3824
I'm at a point where I'm not really hooked into the story yet, so it's going sooo slow. Plus, like many others, I'm at a bit of a lower point, creatively speaking. But I'm trying to soldier on and do it bit by bit until I'm dying to write it.
Also, yes, fandom is in a lull, and yes, I am somehow still behind on reading. Yes, I suck. But! No midterms next week. So yay reading and writing! So, if you want to punch me in the face for not reading your story, don't do it yet! I have a To Answer/Comment On folder! Which I will look at soon! I promise!
In other news, the following is rated R for Ridiculous. I blame amberlynne. Let's never speak of it again. I have a reputation to uphold.
There is a soggy kitten huddling next to the front tire on his bike. Brad thought it was a rat at first, but it didn’t run when he moved and it mewls when he picks it up.
Correction: it’s not soggy, it’s waterlogged.
“Jesus,” Brad tells it. “Aren’t you fucking sad? Like Ray after every single shower his mother’s ever forced him to take.”
The kitten shivers in response. It’s young, right at that stage where its head is big enough to damn near topple it over, and most of the head is consumed by dark eyes. It fits right in the palm of his hand, a perfect little orange and white pathetic wet thing.
Brad looks around for the little girl who’s undoubtedly lost this thing, but it’s raining sheets, impossible to see anything more than ten feet away.
Another little shiver and Brad says, “Goddammit,” unzipping his slicker one-handed. He jerks down the zipper on the sweater he’s wearing underneath and tucks the kitten in and zips it in. He has to cradle the bundle of it against his stomach until he’s on the bike, kicking off, thinking about Nate laughing at him.
Nate does laugh at him, once he finds out.
But when Brad gets in the front door Nate’s not there, but all the lights are on and something’s cooking.
“Nate,” Brad yells, back to cradling the kitten.
“What,” Nate yells back from upstairs.
“Can you get me a towel?”
“Just a sec.”
Brad manages to scrape off his boots while he waits and drips. There’s some silence from upstairs, and then the sound of Nate emerging from his office and going through the hall closet for a towel.
“Are you alright?” Nate asks when he hits the bottom of the stairs, green-striped towel draped over his hands.
“I’m fine,” Brad says.
“You’re squirming. If this is going to be like Alien then I am going back the fuck upstairs. No way am I cleaning up your entrails.”
“Don’t be such a bitch. I know you’re curious.”
Nate shrugs, slinging the towel over his shoulder. He unzips Brad’s soaked jacket down to where Brad’s holding the kitten and then goes for the sweater underneath. When he gets that down to Brad’s hand there’s a flurry of squirming and then the kitten pops its little bedraggled face out, blinking at Nate.
“Well,” Nate says, blinking back down at it, “it’s not an alien, but it kind of looks like a goblin.” Still, he gets the towel and holds it out while Brad transfers his charge into it, and then he folds the kitten up until just its head it sticking out of the mound of towel.
“Go get changed,” he says. “I’ll see if we have anything that passes as cat food.”
Brad puts on fresh jeans and a dry t-shirt before heading back downstairs. Nate’s stirring his pot of curry, cat and towel in the crook of one arm.
“Anything?” Brad asks, levering the bundle out of Nate’s arm and into his own. He picks up a corner of the towel and rubs it over the top of the kitten’s ridiculously huge head. It blinks up at Brad again. It does kind of look like a goblin. Or an old man stuck in a kitten’s body.
“No,” Nate replies, putting the lid back on the pot. “I’ll have to go buy something.” He sticks a fingertip under the kitten’s chin and rubs it back and forth and the kitten closes its eyes.
They relocate to the living room and Brad starts rubbing down the kitten and Nate turns on the news. They watch in silence that’s punctuated by kitten-squeaks and Brad murmuring, stay fucking still and no claws.
By the first commercial their little friend is approaching dry, but still ridiculous looking. It’s also a boy, and he’s noisy.
“Mew mew mew, I know,” Brad says, flipping the towel to the dry side, making a volcano-shaped nest to plunk the kitten down in. “Stay.”
That works for about five seconds, and then the stupid little goblin face pokes out, going, mew mew mew.
“I regret recognizing you as something other than a rat,” Brad says, and Nate laughs.
“I’ll go get some stuff,” Nate says. “Don’t stick him on the porch.”
Brad covers the hole in the towel with his palm, kitten ears brushing his fingers. “I make no promises.”
“Whatever,” Nate scoffs, pulling on his sweater. “Like you have the ability to leave a baby anything out in the cold.”
Goblinface starts licking Brad’s hand earnestly, but Brad’s face is solid. “I can’t help but noticing you’re not a baby anything though, so I hope you’ll enjoy your night spent on the porch.”
Nate pulls an exaggerated pouting face. “Too bad,” he says, “after I picked out a dildo for tonight and everything. Guess you’re on your own.” He digs his car keys out of the basket on the table. “And I know how bad you are at using them on yourself, so enjoy your sexual frustration, Colbert. I’ll be in the car.”
Brad rolls his eyes and ignores the very strong impulse to go check the bedroom. Instead he waits until Nate’s gone before lifting Goblinface out and plopping him down on his thigh. There’s more mewing, but it stops when Brad strokes his fingers down the kitten’s back, all the way to his scrawny tail. A rusty, stuttering little purr kicks up under his fingers, and Brad turns the news down to listen to it.